


Failure is Not an Option

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Domination, Established Relationship, M/M, Voyeurism, bottom!Phil, fuck therapy, top!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint hated Jersey, because when bad guys went to ground in Jersey, people got killed. <br/>When people got killed, Phil Coulson got mad. <br/>And when Phil Coulson got mad, Clint was the one who had to deal with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Failure is Not an Option

**Author's Note:**

  * For [candesgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/gifts).



> I didn't put warnings on this as I'm really not sure how to label it, so caveat emptor. There is a blush, a slight hinting, of dub-con here that is to me no such thing; however it might be, to someone else. So I'm not going to call it a dub-con story, because I don't think it is, but you have to judge for yourself whether it's worth the risk of reading it. 
> 
> This is for Jen, who is awesome and deserves better. No really, she deserves SO much better. I'm not pleased with this story, I've completely rehashed it three times, and...me and dark themes, we don't get along. We should probably break up for everyone's sake. Because otherwise it results in stories like this. Ugh. Well I'm done with it and I promised it to Jen and...here, take my fic, please!
> 
> ....I hope you enjoy it? *slumps*

Clint knew via Hill that the op Phil was on had gone bad, but he didn’t realize just how bad until he was setting the QuinJet down on the landing pad that Stark at installed at the top of the tower. Normally, Phil would be there waiting for him, in his dark suit and sunglasses, looking calm and annoyed in that way that most senior agents could. 

Phil wasn’t there. 

Clint, Natasha and Bruce had been on a short fact-checking mission for SHIELD, which translated to Clint and Natasha clearing a path for Bruce into a top-secret HYDRA lab so he could figure out what the hell was going on (Clint thought it was hysterically ironic that after all the hoopla about the Hulk being on the Avengers, it was Dr. Bruce Banner’s mad science skillz that were often in higher demand). Stark was somewhere on the Pacific Rim, being herded to business meetings by Pepper. Thor was just MIA, something that everyone had gotten used to after the first four times he disappeared down the Asgardian rabbit hole. That left Captain America and his trusty sidekick Agent Phil Coulson to get called out on an impromptu mission in conjunction with the ATF to shut down some gun/drug runners in New Jersey who may or may not have had links to HYDRA.

Clint hated Jersey, because when bad guys went to ground in Jersey, people got killed. 

When people got killed, Phil Coulson got mad. 

And when Phil Coulson got mad, Clint was the one who had to deal with it. 

“Where is he?” Clint asked as he walked down the ramp. Natasha, who could spot trouble ten miles out, hustled Bruce straight past them into the waiting elevator, making a clean get away. Clint didn’t blame her.

Steve grimaced. He was looking perfect and handsome in his casual clothes, Captain America packed away for the moment. “The pistol range. He’s…I’ve never seen him like this before.”

Clint nodded. He looked at his hands, dirty (bloody) from his last job, and he was still in his suit, which was feeling stiff and grimy from sweat. “Hill said it went south.”

Steve nodded, motioning towards the elevator which had opened up for them again, probably thanks to Jarvis. "South as in straight to Hell. We’re pretty sure there was a mole in the ATF side, but we’re also pretty sure he was one of the casualties.”

“How many?” Clint tugged at his finger guard, considering taking it off. 

“Only four, which given the clusterfuck it became is a miracle. Three of theirs, one of SHEILDS.”  
Clint picked up on how Steve had not said “one of ours” – no one could say Captain America didn’t hold a grudge, and he was still very pissed off at Fury’s lies about Phil’s death. It had been six months and Phil was in better shape than he had been in years thanks to the physical therapy, but Steve was still keeping SHIELD at arm’s length and Phil on a short leash. Clint would have been slightly jealous if he hadn’t thought that Steve was asexual or just into denial; but it was also obvious that Steve’s hyper over-protectiveness actually extended to all of the Avengers. In that sense, Phil wasn’t any more special to Steve than Clint. They were Steve’s team, first and foremost, and that was why Steve was standing in the elevator trying to bore holes in the walls with his eyes.

“We lost one?”

“Agent Alan Fu. You know him?”

“Well, shit.” Clint scrubbed at his face before he remembered the finger guard, and yelp in pain as it scrapped his skin. He glared at it accusingly. “Yeah. I know him. Phil trained him.”

“He was on Phil’s team. It was…stupid. Damnit. Just stupid, they walked right into it, our intel fed them to those bastards like breakfast.”

“They trying to make a point?” Clint was already out of the lift before the door finished opening. 

“Hell if I know.” Steve stayed on his heels, which Clint was not particularly pleased about. “Maybe. Or it was an opening move in a bigger game. Fury’s chewing on it.” Steve reached out and grabbed Clint, stopping him. Clint could have ducked him, but if Steve wanted you to hear what he had to say he was damn well going to make sure you heard it, and Clint had learned to just go along. “It was hard fighting, Clint, and Agent Fu bled out because we couldn’t get to them fast enough. _I_ couldn’t get to them fast enough, and hell if I hadn’t been on the mission no one on that team would be alive.” Steve shook him a little. “No one.”

Clint felt himself tightening up, his nerves and worries crystalizing into sharp blades of fear. “No one,” he repeated.

“I’m telling you: _no one_.” Steve punctuated his words with one last shake that set Clint’s teeth rattling before he let go. “Phil kept them alive under lousy odds, but they weren’t supposed to walk out of that trap. I took down half the building to get to them, and I was still too late for Agent Fu. Even if Iron Man had been here—” Steve let go, his own anger swamping him for a second. “We still would have lost Fu. I tried to tell Phil that, but he’s just not listening.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t be right now.”

Steve folded his arms over his chest. “He’s been on bad missions before.”

Clint mirrored the pose, although he felt like a knock off miniature copy. “You know the difference between a mission gone FUBAR and one where you led your people into a trap.”

Steve opened his mouth, clearly ready to say “I never led my men into a trap” when it hit him. He slumped a little. “That wasn’t his fault.”

“He led them in there, it was his job to lead them out. Don’t even try to bullshit me that you don’t feel the same way.”

Steve stared at the ground for a moment, then nodded. “He’s been target shooting since we got back three hours ago. He hasn’t gone to your rooms or anything. JARVIS has been keeping me posted, because the range is locked.” He looked up at Clint. “We’ve lost soldiers before.”

Clint turned on his heel and headed for the door to the range, but Steve still dogged him. “You know, despite appearances, SHIELD’s got the lowest casualty rate of any comparable organization. I think only the FBI’s is lower. We don’t throw our people away, and we plan for them to be around a long time. Phil _trained_ Alan Fu and expected him to be there at Phil’s retirement party, okay? People lose soldiers in war, Steve; _you_ lost soldiers during the War. But we usually aren’t at war, alien invasions excepted, and we don’t lose people very often, and Phil takes his responsibility to bring them out alive as seriously as you do. Alan was a protégé and a friend. So shut up and let me handle this, okay?” Clint punched in the override code. 

Steve stepped back, nodding. “I’m staying right here. Just in case.”

“Don’t need your help.” Clint focused on the door and the sounds of gun fire as it opened.

“I’m staying. My team; I’m staying.” Steve shoved Clint in the back, propelling him through the door before closing it. Clint never lost his footing but it was always a challenge when Steve Rogers decided to get pushy. He came to a stop when he saw Phil.

He was still in his suit—his blood covered, dusty, wrecked and torn suit. The jacket was split up the back, flapping open to show the shirt underneath with every shot Phil took. The pants were coated in thick black stains that only looked brackish red in the reflection of the overhead lights. Phil was standing at the deck, firing down the range steadily, going through the bullets in his clip methodically. Shell casings scattered the ground in a solid layer, which was yet another clue to how bad things were because Phil was the kind of shooter who usually swept up at the end of every clip. 

By the second shot Clint was grabbing one of the spare ear mufflers off the wall by the door. He knew that Phil saw him so he was not worried about spooking him as he walked over to where Phil had set up, trying not to spill on his ass by slipping on the casings under his feet. Phil shot the last bullet in his clip just as Clint got to his side. Phil carefully put the pistol down on the deck, removed his ear protection, and looked at the targets. Clint took his own ear protection off, stripping his finger and arm guards off as well while they stood there sizing each other up. 

“Glock 9mil.” Clint tapped the gun with a finger. 

“Nice firepower.” Phil kept staring at the dead targets, which were looked more like lacework given all the holes shot through them.

“I know. I bought you the damn thing.”

Phil nodded. “Everything go all right?”

“Yeah, me and Nat got little Brookie in and out with no problems.” 

Phil inspected him from top to bottom. “Blood on your shooting arm, and splatter on your left leg.”

“None of it mine, all of it HYDRA’s.” Clint kept his eyes locked on Phil’s, not looking down at the dried blood all over his suit. 

“Alan’s dead.”

“Steve told me.”

“Told you everything?”

“The highlights: ATF are morons, mole in the ranks, trap, Cap saves the day, no one knows what the fuck happened. Alan dies anyway, not your fault.”

Phil took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. “There were signs.”

“Like hell there were. If there had been any indication it was a trap, you would have called it.”

Phil shrugged, his fingers trailing over the gun. 

Clint grabbed his wrist. “Am I calling in psych? Because I will.” 

Phil rolled his eyes. “Just letting off steam, Barton; don’t be a drama queen.” He tried to pull his hand back but Clint locked his fingers around Phil’s wrist. Phil stared at Clint’s hand. “It was a fucking mess.”

“No shit. So are you.” Clint squeezed his wrist. 

Phil glared up at him. 

“You’re still in your fucked up, bloody suit. You haven’t changed or cleaned up, and you’re hiding out in the pistol range murdering targets. I think you’ve actually freaked out _Captain America_ so don’t give me shit.”

At the mention of his hero, Phil grimaced.

“Oh no, don’t start that. Cap said he would have made the same call. I’m just lucky that Cap was there at all to dig you out, otherwise everyone would be dead. Let me explain to you how much that idea pisses me off.” Clint grabbed his other arm and started shoving Phil backwards.

“Goddamnit, Clint—” Phil twisted but Clint was ready, shifting his hold and moving quickly to the side. Phil followed instinctively, not quite realizing they were in a fight yet, giving Clint time to use the momentum to spin him around shove him forward until they slammed into the back wall. Clint locked one of Phil’s hands against the wall, his arm pressing down on Phil’s until veins popped. He held his other forearm against Phil’s neck, pressing him against the wall in a move that was in most other circumstances lethal. 

“Not in the mood, Barton.”

Clint froze, letting up on this pressure incrementally. They stood like that for nearly a minute, Clint holding Phil against the wall with his arms and his hips and Phil’s acquiescence. Finally Clint breathed out heavily, near Phil’s ear. “You walked them into that trap and you could not get them out alive. If Captain America had not been there, you’d all be dead. Just. Like. Alan.” 

“Fuck you, Barton, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, you self-righteous asshole.” Phil shoved back. 

Clint bit his ear, hard, before hissing into it. “You think you fucked up. Captain America got a front row seat at how badly you fucked up, too. Everyone did. Alan’s dead. Congratulations.”

“You’re crossing a line, Barton,” Coulson snapped, his body still coiled. 

“Calling it like I see it, _sir_.” 

Phil broke, yanking his free arm to snap it backwards, trying to clock Clint in the head. Phil was sneaky but pound for pound, Clint out-muscled him and always had. And, in the end, Clint was more ruthless. Phil was a tactician and could be ruthless when he needed to be, but it wasn’t his nature, it was something he had learned along the way.

Clint, on the other hand, was a bred-true son of a bitch. 

He yanked the free arm back behind Phil by sheer brute strength, then set his feet and pushed his whole body into Phil, trapping the arm at a painful angle and slowly pushing all the breath out of Phil’s lungs. Phil’s choices for escaping narrowed down to a very small number of moves that would seriously injure one or the other of them, if not both. He worked his other arm, trying to twist his wrist out of Clint’s grasp, until Clint shoved forward with everything he had, nearly cracking Phil’s ribs. He was closing in on dislocating the shoulder, and he would if he had to — it was not something he would shy away from if Phil didn’t settle the fuck down. Clint whispered in his ear as Phil tried to suck in air. 

“Gonna fuck this out of you, sir. Because just found out I almost lost you, and damn if that doesn’t piss me off.”

“Go to hell.”

Clint shoved forward again, knowing that Phil didn’t even have a full breath of air in him to lose. Phil snarled in pain even as he made a high-pitched sucking noise, his lungs unable to expand under the pressure Clint had on him. Phil squirmed frantically, trying to breathe, and Clint counted backwards from thirty, and at the count of four Phil’s body finally sagged. 

He kept the arm pinned up against Phil’s back but let go of his left wrist, letting Phil’s arm drop unceremoniously. Clint used his freed hand to reach around and unbuckle Phil’s pants, undoing them and unzipping them and shoving them down his thighs. Phil was breathing again, pulling air in, his body tilting a little from dizziness. Clint recognized the symptoms. 

Clint reached into one of the hidden pockets of his uniform for his last little ampule of Vaseline. He did not keep them on hand for sex, despite the jokes other agents made; the jelly was a perfect lubricant with a thousand uses in the field, and Clint never left on a mission without five on hand. It didn’t work with condoms but he and Phil hadn’t bothered with those for a while, unless an op went particularly dirty. So he tore the package open with his teeth and lubed up his fingers. 

Phil was panting, breathing again but uncontrolled. He squirmed as he felt Clint’s hand at his ass.

“Shut up, shut up. You stupid fuck, you think I care about any of that? I just want to feel you. Damnit, Phil, you almost died. I wasn’t there and…fuck.” Clint shoved two fingers in hard. 

Phil tipped his head back and yowled like a cat, his eyes shut. He was tight and hot and Clint pressed up against him again, finger fucking him fast and hard. Phil hiccupped a gasp and started pistoning his hips. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby, fuck yourself on my fingers. Let it out. Let me hear you, I—”  
“Hey guys, I thought I heard—” 

Clint jerked his head towards the door that Steve was holding open. They looked at each other and Clint had no idea what was on his face other than pure determination but Steve was shocked, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“You fucking _mind_ , Rogers?” Clint ground out, his mouth working around the words as he forced himself to stop. He felt more than heard Phil’s whine, a soft, pained noise that was stretched thin.

Steve closed his mouth, but gave Clint a sharp look before closing the door behind him. Clint was getting ready to cuss him out when he realized why Steve looked pissed off: Clint had Phil subdued with one of Phil’s arms up behind him as he finger fucked him, Phil’s pants shoved down his thighs. Clint had enough presence of mind to know that it looked bad. 

Steve walked over to them slowly. Phil’s face was still facing the opposite way, but Steve was not trying to be stealthy and he telegraphed his steps loudly. 

“Phil.”

“Go. Away.” Phil snapped, closing his eyes. Clint felt him starting to shake, and he was not at all sure if it was from shame or embarrassment or laughter. 

“Tell me this is what you want. Tell me that you’re okay with this. I need to hear it from you.”

Clint kept himself completely still, his fingers rammed up Phil’s ass, while they waited for Phil to answer. 

Phil laughed, a short bark of anger and frustration. “Situation normal, Rogers. Please leave.” 

Steve didn’t look convinced, giving Clint a suspicious glare, but he nodded and walked backwards to the door. Phil let out a slow, shaky breath. Clint stole a glance over at Steve and if nothing else, it answered one question for Clint: Steve’s dick was hard, outlined clearly inside his pants. 

Steve went out the door, giving Clint a fierce look before closing it behind him. Captain America apparently did not approve of fuck therapy, but Clint was okay with that as long as he stayed out of it.

Of course, Phil was a different matter entirely. He squirmed and shifted as if trying to get out of Clint’s hold.

“You think this range is soundproof but Steve’s got super-hearing. He heard us and thought maybe I was beating you up or something. He can hear you now. He _saw_ you like this.”

Phil gasped for air and started struggling again, actually fighting back by trying to twist his arm free while his other arm pushed against the wall for leverage.

“I’m going to fuck you, and Captain America is going to hear it. He’s going to hear you take it from me. He’s going to hear you break.”

“No—”

“Shut up!” Clint pulled out his fingers and wiped them on his pants, uncaring of the mess because his suit was already trashed anyway. He quickly grabbed both of Phil’s hands and yanked them up, Phil crying out a little as his position was forcibly adjusted. Clint crossed Phil’s wrists then pinned them to the wall with one hand, bring his other down to open his fly and get his dick out. “Ready? This is going to hurt, baby, this is going to hurt you just as much as you need.” Clint did not know why it came to this, sometimes. It wasn’t punishment, but it was, but it wasn’t, and Clint got a headache trying to figure it out. And he was too horny to care. 

He got the Vaseline packet from where he had stashed it in his belt and spread the rest over his dick. He grabbed himself and lined up, pausing long enough to tighten his tenuous one-handed hold of Phil’s crossed wrists. Phil’s groan was muffled by the wall, but Clint didn’t wait for him to catch his breath before moving again, pushing in hard and steady, grabbing at Phil’s naked hip.

Clint stilled when he bottomed out, Phil groaning loudly and inarticulately. Clint pushed his mouth up against Phil’s ear. “He can hear you. Captain America is standing guard outside that door and he _knows_. He hears you getting fucked, he saw me using you. Your precious Captain America.”

Phil gasped.

“You’re mine. You’re everything to me.” Clint snapped his hips, once, twice, three times until he got a fast rhythm going, his hips slamming against Phil’s ass. “You think you failed, but you’re wrong. So goddamn wrong, Phil. So goddamn perfect.” He was choking on the words, spitting them out.

“I didn’t…I failed…” Phil rumbled the words, his voice scratchy. 

“No.” 

“No…” Phil’s voice drifted away, his eyes falling shut. His body loosened up as Clint kept fucking, his strokes slow and sure, sweat beading up on his skin as he used all of his strength to hold Phil in place. He was grunting and swearing as he pounded at Phil’s body, trying to chase out the demons he couldn’t shoot. He paused to kick Phil’s feet further apart and then sank back in, pressing his whole body against Phil’s back. 

“He doesn’t care, Phil.”

Phil sucked in a breath. 

“Doesn’t care if you’re gay, if I’m fucking you, if you screwed up. You’re part of his team and all he cares about is you. Not like I do, never like I do, but he cares. You really think you could ever fail us?”

Phil pressed his face hard against the wall, his hips shoving back. 

Clint chuckled. “Yeah, I get it. Fuck you hard.” Clint leaned back, pushed his knees forward and snapped his hips so his angle was straight up into Phil’s ass. It had the desired effect: Phil shuddered as Clint’s dick assaulted his prostate. He was angled like a bow, one hand up high, trapping Phil’s wrists; his body arcing out and down to where his dick sunk into Phil; the tips of his boots touching the wall. It was precarious but full of tension, a position that Clint could hold for hours if he needed too.

He knew he would not need to, though, since he could feel Phil’s nerves twitching and his body twisting as Clint slammed into him, over and over. Sweat poured down Clint’s elevated arm and beaded on his face and neck. He kept pummeling himself against Phil’s pliant but solid body; Phil never gave it up easy, and rarely let Clint fuck him at all. Clint intended to wring him dry for the privilege. 

He felt his orgasm pooling in his blood, curling up and ready to snap in release. Phil’s body was vibrating, and he was gasping out clipped, guttural sounds as he let Clint take him.

“Fuck, I love you. Phil, you’re so damn perfect.”

Phil’s knees had gave out and without Clint’s weight at his back he would have been on the floor. 

“Clint, please…please,” Phil babbled uncontrollably, his body shuddering. 

“I’ve got you, Jesus fucking Christ, I’m going to come so hard, I love you. Fuck, you hear me? I love you. Give it up for me, Phil.” Clint tightened his hold on Phil’s wrists, and wrapped his free arm completely around Phil’s torso in a hard embrace, place his cheek against Phil’s shoulder. “Never letting go.” 

Phil whined and came, his body stuttering with a pounding force that Clint barely held in check. Phil gasped for air. “I failed,” he repeated, and then repeated again as the aftershocks took him. 

Clint threw his head back as his orgasm put him on automatic, thrusting in and out of Phil in a slick haze of need. When he pumped out he pushed his whole body into Phil again, pressing them together before rolling into a controlled drop to the floor, both arms tightly around Phil. 

They lay on the ground panting. Phil put his hands on Clint’s forearms, holding on. 

Clint wasn’t surprised to hear the door open. Phil froze up completely. 

The lights dimmed for Clint as Steve hunched over them, his huge mass blocking the overheads. 

“You didn’t fail, Phil. I’m proud of you. We all lose men in war, it’s more important to stay human and feel that pain. I’m glad you have someone to share it with you.” 

Clint looked up at Steve, shocked to see tears staining his perfect face. 

Steve bent down, pressing his face into Phil’s shoulder with a small, quiet noise, then stood up. He turned and walked out without another word. 

Phil remained completely still for a moment, then turned in Clint’s arms and began crying in soft, racking sobs, his face hidden against Clint’s chest. Clint took in a deep breath and held Phil tightly, knowing words would be meaningless, knowing that this was what he had come in there to do from the start. That did not make it easier, but holding on was all Clint had to offer so he tensed his arms and wrapped one leg around Phil’s hips, dragging him as close as they could get to each other. 

#


End file.
